Clever Got Me This Far
by The Abbot of Beregost
Summary: Racetrack confronts Gunny Sims after a mission, wondering why he's been keeping his distance.


**A/N:** Gunny Sims rides again. Props to A Perfect Circle. Since I actually got S3 yesterday, I might just make this a series. Dunno.

He crept in his crew compartment as quietly as he could, hanging his helmet on the peg by his bunk. Gunnery Sergeant Craig Sims suppressed a groan as he cleared his shotgun and carefully stuck the shells into his webbing. He was still holding his side when he heard the bulkhead open. It was quieter than his entrance, yes. He looked up, dirty face barely recognizable to the new guest to Compartment T2184. She frowned damn near the instant she saw him.

"Heard what happened on the wireless, Gunny."

"Yeah. How's tricks, el-tee?"

She frowned, deeper this time.

"You're holding your side."

He looked down, blushing a bit. Remembered plowing through the door...

"Yeah."

"How bad, Craig?"

Sims didn't say a damned thing. Racetrack rolled her eyes, walked towards him. She was in uniform, her blues with the little grease stains, he saw. He was staring at her boots when she knelt in front of him, stared him in the eyes.

"You gonna let me help you?"

"Do I got a choice, El-tee?"

"So, we're being formal now?"

He remembered the kiss in the locker, hearing her voice after the Battle of New Caprica. The relief, the calm he felt. He could feel it creeping up on him now, just like the embarrassment.

"No."

"Musta been bad to have you run out in civvies."

He nodded. Gunny Sims wasn't wearing his all-blacks. He was wearing an old Picon Panthers tee shirt and his favourite faded blue jeans. All his kit was strapped on top, thigh rig hanging off a simple leather belt.

"How many hostage takers were there?"

"Three, two of 'em going home in plastic bags."

He still smelled of cordite. Her small, calloused hands started undoing his vest, unzipping the webbing.

"Any of our guys?"

"None of my boys got hurt."

She stared at him, incredulous.

"And I take it when this vest comes off, I won't have to send you to Doc Cottle."

"Hey, he said if I come see him one more time, I get a free sandwich."

She punched him in the thigh, hard.

"Knock it off, Gunny."

He kept quiet, didn't move. He watched a droplet of sweat fall off the tip of his nose, onto his web gear. Racetrack slowly peeled the armor off of him and laid it aside.

"Alright. Where'd the round hit you?"

He touched the spot, already swelling up.

"Right there. Luck shot with a nine. Gods damn it, hurts like a bitch."

"How'd he get it off?"

"I breached the door. Clever got me this far, Margaret."

"And tricky got you in. You said you were Aerilonian food delivery?"

He nodded. She peeled the sticky shirt up off of him, snuck a kiss on the lips. He couldn't help but smile a bit. Sims remembered the expression on the bad guy's face as he kicked down the door right on top of him. His buddy had been a little quicker on the uptake.

"Yeouch. I think you broke some ribs, Craig."

"They're just cracked, really..."

"Lie down."

He obeyed her, pulling off his boots and shuffling back into his bunk. Racetrack pulled off her own boots, squeezed in with the bigger marine. He looped an arm around her, pulled the privacy drape shut. They lay there in the darkness awhile, just holding one another.

"Gunny, you think your men..."

"They know you're here, but they can keep their mouthes shut."

"That's not what I was going to ask, Craig."

"Uhh...shoot, then."

"Why do you always have to be the big man, the hero?"

"I'm just another marine, doing his job."

"That's not what I'm talking about. You always try to push me away when I help you."

"I like standing on my own legs, Marge."

"Don't call me Marge."

"Awright, Racetrack. I'm used to being the calvary, the white knight showing up and blowing away the bad guys. That's what I did tonight."

"So, you don't like it when I come and save your ground-pounding ass?"

"I like it fine. It's just...yeah. I'm not used to this."

"Cally didn't take care of you?"

He frowned at the memories of the deckhand, sitting by his side in the infirmary.

"She did, in her way. But I'm used to being a specialist, just like you. My specialty is...well, fighting. I gotta be tough, all the time. I get hurt, and it's not supposed to affect me. It can't. I have to look after folks like Lee and Starbuck and Hotdog and all the other amateurs who think that because someone gave them some spare fatigues and a rifle they're death in a can. I have to be able to operate hurt. It's part of the job."

She nodded.

"I just...don't want you to hurt. You're one of the few people that's been here the entire time I've been on Galactica. You've been the one I've always carried all over the place, praying you'd make it back alive. You were here when all there was was the skeleton crew. Not too many people in your position appreciate it. I...care. I care a lot. I want you to stop hurting."

He didn't have anything to say in response to that. He just pulled her tight to him, ignoring the pain, and stroked her hair.

"You know, a man could get used to that."

"Oh, and you're seen the Doc tomorrow. Being clever can only get you so far, Craig."


End file.
